


Dean and Crowley's Summer of Love

by MSpataro210



Series: Season 11 Inspired [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bargaining, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Crowley is not amused, Crowley out of suit, Dean drinking, Dean in a threesome, Demon!Dean, F/M, Hippie Dean Winchester, Inspired by 11x06, M/M, Multi, OOC Dean, almost crashing the car, daisies, hints at an orgy, naked stretching, naked swimming, pool playing, recreational drug use (at the end and only mentioned), snapshots of Dean and Crowley on the road together for those three months, the triplets - Freeform, the two go to a concert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 09:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5201198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MSpataro210/pseuds/MSpataro210
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moments in time from some of the misadventures of the King of Hell and former bearer of the Mark of Cain during the great summer of Demon Dean Winchester.  Showing how the relationship was that made it so hard for Crowley to kill Dean, and how free Dean felt and acted during the journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dean and Crowley's Summer of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I was inspired by one of the gems from last night's episode: Sam's name for Dean and Crowley's road trip. I thought this would be the perfect idea and hope you guys like it!

Dean and Crowley’s Summer of Love

            Light filtered in through the thin fabric of the curtains.  Its reach was far, like fingers stretching across the room.  Beams of light were splattered throughout the small, dingy motel space.  It even splayed across the face of the slumbering man, disturbing him.  His nose twitched, his eyebrows wrinkled, and his mouth turned down.  He turned away from the light, wanting to return to the deep slumber he longed for.

            The sound of curtains dramatically being pulled apart, however, signaled the futility of his attempt.

            “Good morning, sunshine.”

            Light of the morning sun filled the room, brightening each and every surface to the point where nothing could be hidden.

            A man stands by the curtains, short, and clothed head to toe in black.  His eyes are alight with mischief and good humor, staring at his companion as the other ruefully sits up in the bed.

            “I hate you Crowley,” the man says, scratching at his head, fighting a yawn, “I don’t even know why I came with you in the first place.”

            “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Dean” Crowley says, Scottish tongue lilting his sentences.

            Dean shoots him a look, then throws the covers off to get up from the bed.

            Crowley blinks: “It seems you’re not wearing panties… or _anything_ at all.”

            “You got that right.”

            Dean winks.

            Crowley moves towards the bed, sitting on it.  “Is this going to be commonplace?” he asks.

            “You were the one telling me to ‘ _howl at the moon_ ’,” Dean quotes, stretching his arms above his head and thrusting his groin out, “I’m just doing what you asked.  This is a better, newer, _freer_ version of Dean Winchester: expect the unexpected.”  He then turns and reaches to touch his toes, placing his ass right in front of Crowley’s line of sight.

            “And is yoga a part of Dean Winchester 2.0?” Crowley deadpans, shifting in his seat from watching Dean shift into another position that, with no clothes on, allows Crowley to see every inch of the former hunter now demon, “Not very much what I was expecting on your first day of demon-hood.”

            “Actually, I’m just seeing how long I can do this before you get uncomfortable and leave,” Dean says, switching to another position, “or before you throw me on the bed and we can make out: which one is working?”

            Dean feels a hand on his shoulder.

            “The latter.”

            Dean smirks, eyes black.

* * *

 

            With one hand on the wheel and another on the neck of a beer bottle, Dean strikes the pedal of the Impala.  It’s wheels screech and its engine gurgles a bit, but it pushes forward at a speed not right for the old car.

            “Should it be making that sound?” Crowley asks, head tangent with the back of the seat, pushed back by the force of the start.

            Dean shrugs: “Who knows, who cares. It’s just a car.”

            He takes a casual sip of his drink, finishing off the bottle.  When he realizes it’s empty, he lets go of the wheel and rolls down the window.

            “Are you daft?!?” Crowley yells, jerking forward to grab the wheel of the car before the two end up in a ditch with broken bones and bleeding wounds.

            Dean throws the bottle out the window before shooting the King of Hell a strange look.

            “Don’t give me that look,” Crowley tells him, “I just saved our lives.”

            “We wouldn’t have died,” Dean counters.

            “I saved _Baby’s_ life,” Crowley tries.

            Dean smirks: “It’s handled worse.”

            “Besides,” he continued, “what’s life- _new life_ \- without a little risk?”

            “Dean…” Crowley warns, earning a dark chuckle from Dean.

            “Relax, relax,” he tells the older man, regaining the grip of the wheels, “I’ll make sure we don’t crash.”

            “That’s good…” Crowley leans back, arms crossed.

            “For now.”

* * *

 

            The billiards explode, scattering to the four corners of the table, bouncing off each other and the walls until they finally settle: two solids pocketed.

            “We go again,” Dean smirks in the direction of the blonde men who stare at the table in shock. The third man who looks exactly like the other two before him has to choke back his drink before it explodes all over himself.

            Crowley holds his cue with a smile, while little cracks form where his hand meets the pole.

            When Dean finally misses a shot, he stands back up and by Crowley, letting one of the men from the opposing side take his turn.

            “Could you lighten up?” he whispers, face turned outward, “we’re trying to have a good time here.”

            “Don’t mind me,” Crowley whispers back, “I’m not stopping you from having your… _fun_.”

            Dean turns to him: “Just because we aren’t damning the souls of the innocent or whatever you and your demon underlings do for kicks doesn’t mean this isn’t fun.”

            “Pray tell me, Dean Winchester,” Crowley turns back to him, “how it this fun?”

            “I bet these guys that if we win,” Dean starts, “it’s _party_ time.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

            Crowley blinks.

            “All three?”

            “All three.”

            There’s the sound of the cue hitting fabric and a hushed curse.

            “So what do you say,” Dean smiles, “make me proud?”

            “I _guess_ I can be convinced,” Crowley manages an actual smile while moving forward, cue light in his grip.

            The smack on the ass that followed lessens the grin.

* * *

 

            “I just don’t get it,” Crowley says one late night while he and Dean are resting on top of the Impala’s roof, taking in the sights.  It’s a warm night: either because it’s summer or because they are sitting in front of a burning building, they can’t tell.

            “What’s there to get?” Dean asks mouth filled with food.

            “How can you humans eat more than one of these,” he gestures to the concoction of marshmallow, chocolate, and graham cracker in his hand.  A woman runs out, screaming into the night, hair aglow with burning embers. “I mean,” Crowley continues, “it just sits in your stomach.”

            A fireman rushes out with the charred remains of a small child, and two tracks that run down his soot-covered face.

            “I can understand where you’re coming from,” Dean finishes off his treat and wipes his hands on his jeans, “but you know us humans: we’re gluttons for punishment.”

            “Sod off,” Crowley pushes Dean, and the two laugh, voices covered by the wailing of the sirens and the gushing of the hoses.

            They look back to their bonfire.

            “We should probably head out,” Dean jumps off, “the atmosphere’s getting a bit too weepy and the flames are shrinking.”

            Crowley joins him: “Where to next?”

            They get in the car, Dean at the wheel and Crowley in the passenger seat.

            “Wherever the road takes us, man.”

* * *

 

            Crowley sits on the edge of the lake, pant legs rolled up while he kicks his feet in the cold water. His shoes are off to the side and he leans back on his hands, waiting for Dean to come back from wherever he went. He’s getting bored when he hears the wind flit by his ear, followed by a loud:

            “CANNONBALL!”

            He splutters, wiping his face free of the water.  He reopens his eyes to see Dean, in all his glory, floating in the lake.

            “Was that really necessary?”

            Dean turns his head and raises a brow.  “Not really,” he confesses, “But then it wouldn’t be fun.”

            Crowley shakes his head, standing up from the edge and snapping his fingers.  In an instant he is dry and redressed, heading towards the car. He follows the trail of clothing back to the Impala, picking up each discarded piece of cloth along the way (how he’s thankful Dean stopped wearing underwear on Day 1). Crowley opens the door of the Impala to put the clothes away when a mountain of cans comes flowing out of car and onto his feet.

            “Dean!” Crowley calls, “Why are there so many beer cans in your car?”

            Dean leans on the edge where Crowley vacated.  “You said I had to stop throwing them out the window!” he smiles.

            “By that I meant throw them out like a regular person!” Crowley bites back.

            Dean’s smile only grows larger: “Whoops!”

            Crowley narrows his eyes and tosses the clothes to the ground.  He huffs, turns, and starts to walk away.

            Dean rolls his eyes, but lifts himself from the water, shaking his head to dry his now longer hair before following the retreating King of Hell.

            “Hey… hey!” he calls, “Come on, it’s not like I have an alcohol problem… or maybe I do-“ Crowley stops “Listen, I’ll throw them out next time-“

            “This isn’t about the beer cans!” Crowley turns.

            “You were literally yelling about them two seconds ago,” Dean explains.

            “I mean,” Crowley explains, “it’s not just them.  I’m tired of being treated like this.  When I knew you were going to turn into a demon, I expected to have fun but nothing… nothing like _this._   Dean, you’re a disappointment.”

            Dean chuckles darkly: “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

            Crowley shakes his head, “Dean-“

            “Listen,” Dean scrubs his hand across his face, “I’m sorry if you feel that way. It’s just- all my life I’ve had to live with expectations, with rules, with _responsibilities._ I’ve never known how to live a life that hasn’t been burdened down with so much weight.  Now… it’s like I can finally _breathe_ for the first time.  You told me to howl at the moon, and baby, I’m howling.  Whether you like it or not.”

            Crowley turns away slightly, arms crossed.  “Still,” he continues, “this isn’t what I imagined at all.”

            “Let it go, dude,” Dean opens his arms, “Expectations only lead to disappointment. It’s better to swing yourself into the abyss without a thought than to worry about what might be inside!”

            Crowley turns back to look at Dean in the eyes-his _black_ eyes, and sighs.

            “Alright,” he concedes, “I’ll _try_ to ‘loosen up’.”

            “Great,” Dean says, “because I’ve got the perfect idea of where we can start to remove that stick up your ass… but you might not like it?”

            “What is it Dean?” Crowley asks, scared.

            “Well… first things first you need to lose the suit.”

* * *

 

            It’s… _different._

            Crowley feels the denim against his skin and can’t help the shiver of nervousness and fear work his way up his spine.  In his suit he’s always been important, a force to be reckoned with.  But in this pair of jeans, a tie-dye shirt, bandana and boots, he feels so out of place.

            But in the right place, judging by the crowd.

            The night is dark, the only lights coming from the stars above and small lanterns scattered throughout the large field.  The music is loud and filled with the sounds of chords and tambourines.  People dance, people sit… and there’s a faint skunk smell on the wind.

            “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

            Crowley turns and looks Dean up and down.  He braided a wreath of flowers into a crown (“All the kids are doing it”), and his tank top is bright hues of blue, purple, and pink.  He cut one of his pairs of jeans into a tight little number that ends above the thigh, and he is missing something below his ankles.

            “Where are your shoes?”

            Dean turns to him smiling, “I wanted to take them off, so I took them off!”

            “What for?” Crowley asks.

            “Because tonight, my liege, is about doing whatever it _is_ you want!”

            “What I want to do is go back to the motel,” Crowley grumbles.

            “C’mon,” Dean pushes him, “you promised to keep an open mind.  This band is supposed to be _far out_.”

            “Isn’t that lingo a little to old?” Crowley asks.

            Dean watches a couple with graying hair and hemp clothing pass by.  “Not for this crowd,” he replies, “Come on, let’s get started-“

            “Remember _your_ promise, Dean,” Crowley chides, “no drinking.”

            Dean crosses his arms, “Damn your bargaining skills.”

            Crowley smirks, “It was the only way to get me out of my suit.”

            Dean starts backing away. “Doesn’t mean I can’t get high!” he sings, rushing off into the crowd of the dazed and confused.

            Crowley curses, and follows him into the pit.

            It’s been an hour, and Crowley already gave up looking for Dean half an hour ago. As of now he’s just standing, taken to listening to the music and watch the people around him.

            The music isn’t… _bad_.  It’s not that good, either.  It’s more like a white noise.  A background sound for the show called life to dance to.  It’s alive and well in this crowd, where Crowley sees happy people, with no care in the world.  People not burdened by the darkness that exists in this world. For a short time, they can forget their troubles and come here to burn off some steam… among other things.

            He sits on the ground tentatively, stretching his legs in front of him.  He feels lighter, and he doesn’t know if it’s from the marijuana being blasted like pumpkin spice during fall or just the warm feeling of letting all his responsibilities go for the moment.  In this crowd he isn’t the King of Hell, he isn’t the bad guy, he isn’t Crowley son of a witch and an unknown peasant.  He’s… no one.  And that’s okay.

He leans back, closes his eyes.

            And smiles. 

* * *

 

            The music is gone, as are most of the people.

            Crowley stays fixed to his spot, still not ready to re-enter the real world.

            But the spell is interrupted the minute something plops into his lap.

            He opens his eyes to see Dean’s head resting on his crotch, eyes more red than black, and a lazy grin stitched onto his face.

            “Where’d you go?” Crowley cocks a brow at his friend.

            “Hippies man,” Dean turns to tell him, “this free love shit is the best.  I was the filling to a patchouli sandwich.  Their numbers are saved in my phone as Lennon and Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”

            “I can see you had fun,” Crowley smiles, leaning back onto his palms again.

            Dean looks up at the Scottish demon in front of him.  “What about you,” Dean asks, “did you have fun?”

            Crowley returns his gaze with a soft smile.  “I… _might_ have had a fun time.”

            Dean smiles brightly, “Awesome.”

            Then, he yawns, turning around, “I’m gonna catch a couple of z’s.  Hope you don’t mind.”

            “Not at all,” Crowley tells him.

            “Oh, yeah, before I forget, this is for you.”

            Dean’s arm sticks up and out, almost hitting Crowley in the face.  When Crowley reorients himself, he sees a small daisy in the large hand of the dozing man on him.  Crowley delicately picks the flower from his grip.

            “What’s this for then, Dean? Dean?”

            But it’s too late, the night has worn him out to the point where Morpheus has reclaimed his twisted soul.

            Crowley looks down at the flower, it’s bright white petals glowing in the dark night.  How soft the stem feels in his hand.

            And once again, Crowley feels calm.  He feels the peace that Dean was talking about.  Sees how easy it is to let yourself fall back into the comfort of this life.

            If he kicks his shoes off to the side… well, they’re back on his feet before Dean wakes up.

* * *

 

            “Sir?”

            Crowley startles, turning back around to face his minion, hand behind his back.

            “What is it?” he spits out, eyes lowered in irritation.

            “The Winchesters have entered the perimeter,” he tells them, “what should we do.”

            Crowley’s hands tighten behind his back, before he orders the guard: “Take care of them. But leave Dean to me.”

            “Are you su-“

            “That was an order!”

            The demon shuts up, bows, and turns on his heel.  He leaves Crowley alone in his throne room.

            He pulls his hand from behind his back to look at that flower from so many nights ago, still as fresh as the day it was plucked from the Earth.  Even looking at it now brings back so many memories of the days and nights filled with nothing but he and Dean and the world at their feet.

            “I’m sorry, my boy,” he tells the flower, “but things must run their course, tools outlive their usefulness, and even seasons end.”

            He drops the flower to the cold, stone ground.

            It’s crushed beneath his shoes on his way out.

**Author's Note:**

> Like it? Love it? Leave kudos and comments (they make my day!)


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